


Snape & Tepes Industries

by YinNocturne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Gen, Marauders' Era, Not Actually a Vampire Vampire, Potions Empire, Potions Mastery, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:38:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YinNocturne/pseuds/YinNocturne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus Snape is a recently graduated Slytherin struggling to survive in a world where Slytherins are feared. Nosferatu Tepes is the Heir to the largest Vampire Clan in Europe, but he's a human. Together they decide to create a potions empire, just to prove everyone wrong!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I'm basically rewriting this, because that's always what happens when I start editing things I wrote years back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an edited version of the original. (20-03-16)

It has been three months since I graduated Hogwarts. Three long months and yet I feel no better than I did when I walked its draughty stone corridors, and slept in the depths of the Slytherin dungeons. A year ago, if you had asked me, I would have told you with great conviction that once I was away from James Potter and his ‘Marauder’ friends my life would be vastly more enjoyable. Pleasured and purposeful, the world outside Hogwarts was surely wider than the constriction bred within its walls. I had truly believed that, away from Hogwarts the stigma of Slytherin House would not be nearly so profound. Unfortunately, I have been intimately confronted with the truth that that is not so. 

These are dark times, and any person or creature with any kind of connection Slytherin House or the Dark Lord Voldemort no matter how distant is treated with fear and great suspicion. The public does not stop to take any more distinction than the broadest of brush strokes. As a result, no one will hire  _ me _  – a Half Blood whose only noteworthy points tie him to Slytherin House and a ‘friendship’ with Lucius Malfoy, who is now one of Voldemort’s newest recruits, even if his allegiances are supposedly a secret. All they see is the lingering aura of green and silver, all they hear is an echoing sibilance. 

It hardly seems to matter to anyone that I graduated with the highest score in Potions Hogwarts has seen in over a century. Similarly that my mother was the last of the renowned Prince line and as her heir I have access to one of the larger estates in the Wizarding World, one that contains the largest Potions library in all of Europe is also disregarded. All of it has approximately no relation at all to my current fortunes. 

No reputable Potions Master will take me on as an apprentice. No brewery will hire me, not even as the lowest assistant. I cannot even be trusted to fetch and carry ingredients, to their eyes my very presence contaminates their labs. The shopkeepers in in Diagon Alley continually attempt to bar me from their businesses, and when they cannot they serve me with utmost reluctance. As such, I am left to work with whatever ingredients and apparatus I can find in the depths of Knockturn, far from the bright entranceway to Diagon and the ‘Lighter’ parts of Magical London. 

The so-called ‘Light Wizards’ disgust me, in their wilful blindness they are only worsening their positions. All I want to do is to find a nice, quiet lab to live out the rest of my days brewing and inventing. I would quite happily withdraw myself almost entirely from their backwards society, but there are things I must first achieve. And until they are, I am forced to endure. 

It matters not that I do not bear the skull and serpent mark of the Dark Lord, I have been branded in the eyes of the Ministry and the Wizarding public – along with every other Slytherin and every magical being that doesn’t have a strictly ‘Light’ alignment. My mother must have been wrong, in her stories from her parent’s childhood, when she spoke of a society that cared not for your magical alignment and of a time when wars were fought on a political battlefield, rather than a physical one.

Now, over one hundred and fifty years later, Knockturn Alley is the only place any Dark or Neutrally aligned being can be free from outright suspicion and blatant fear. We have regressed, become unbalanced and twisted through the reign of Grindelwald and into the current stirring of the Dark Lord Voldemort. But Knockturne has retained at least a little of it’s origins, which is why I return here - to Asmodeus - every night without fail. I must look pathetic, sitting at the bar night after night, only a tumbler of Firewhiskey to keep me company. I hunch over my drink, hiding behind the curtain of my hair as if it can shield me from the world. 

I will say though, the Firewhiskey I prefer  _ is _ damn good Firewhiskey, the only good thing to come from having Lucius Malfoy as a roommate throughout my Hogwarts years. It gave me a taste and tolerance for strong, good quality Firewhiskey, not Ogden’s plebian stock, but that of a smaller brewery called Pyriticus. I do not know how Malfoy managed to find him, but at some point he orchestrated an import contract, and it is now supplied to a few select bars and taverns in the Wizarding Districts of Europe. He took his payment as few bottles of their finest vintage each year we were at Hogwarts.

I lift the glass to my lips, it burns smooth as it slides down my throat, as it always does. It’s a rich, complex flavour, and every bottle is different, with just enough of a kick to feel.  And it won’t leave you coughing, at least, not if you are as accustomed to it as I am. The tumbler gives a solid thunk as I set it down on the bar, only the lightest sheen of alcohol left in the bottom. Three fingers a night, and I’ve been coming enough that I can be classed a regular. With a galleon and glance flicked to the bartender, I am off, there is no more reason for me to linger in this day. 

Perhaps tomorrow will be… better is not something I hope for anymore, but fruitful is something I must at least hold onto the desire for. If I am to survive at all, I must retain at least that - I will not call it fire, I am no Gryffindor. Slytherin’s always find a way to survive, clinging to live until they can engineer their uprising. 

The stool gives a horrid screeching as I push it back, it always does, and I will always wince. It is a wonder those of sharper senses haven’t done something about it before now. With my thoughts consuming my focus I fail to police my usual boundaries of personal space, knocking sharply into a slight figure as I turn. 


	2. The Other Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Nosferatu Tepes, a recently inheritor of Vampiric power... Oh wait, no, the clan wishes that were true, Nosferatu Tepes is as human as they come, despite having passed the due date for his inheritance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Meet the OC lead. Also, this thousand words of editing fic came really quickly...

It's been three months since I left the main clan behind. I left in the middle of the day when no one, bar the few human servants the clan employs to look after the young ones who haven’t yet received their inheritances, was awake. It was easier that way. I didn't want to have to face Mother and Father.  Or the rest of my former clan and their blatant falseness. I was sick of seeing the pity and the doubt in their eyes, hearing them whisper behind my back ' _ How will he lead the clan? He is no vampire!' 'He is a disgrace; he should have been killed on his 15th birthday.' 'Who will lead the clan now; there are no other direct heirs?'  _

Yeah, what a joke, the heir to the largest, most prosperous vampire clan in existence and yet he's as human as they come! I’m the  _ ultimate _ disgrace in the eyes of the elders; even my own father can barely hide his disappointment in me. I know they are all hoping my mother will be able to conceive another child, she’s still young enough yet. If they receive a full inheritance on their 15th birthday, all their problems are solved and they can safely erase my entire existence. I decided that I wasn’t going to stay in that place, to be treated like a ghost, or a piece of furniture. 

I found the cheapest lodgings I could when I arrived in London’s Wizarding sector. I only brought one pouch of gold with me after all and I didn’t know how long it would last me. After all, even undetectable expansion charms only go so far. I don't know how long I'll be until I find a way to get some incoming cash - I have no real marketable skills, I’m fifteen and I’m from a rich family – I’ve never really had to work for anything. If I ever did it was merely to stave off boredom, not from any real need to be working. 

I’ll probably end up running errands or dicing ingredients for a potions master or some other boring job that no one else wants. I just hope it will pay well enough to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly. Unfortunately, I can’t gain all my meals from unfortunate strangers, like the rest of my undead relatives. Being a vampire would certainly drop my living expenses, if nothing else.

The room I'm renting is small and rather grim. The walls are panelled in a dark brown wood that’s scratched and dulled; the floorboards aren’t in much better condition. The ceiling was once painted white  _ ‘Or maybe it was cream… _ ’ I muse.  At least it's a roof over my head and a bed under my back for the nights. The inbuilt heating/cooling and cleaning charms are a welcome bonus, even if they are rather archaic. It doesn’t matter that the mattress is thin, and that I can sometimes hear the pipes rattling. This is mine, and there’s no one who can take it from me. 

“Well, not until I run out of money.” I sigh, shifting again to avoid a particularly stiff lump that seems determined to dig into my spine and nowhere else. 

The thing with vampires is that part of the transformation includes our 'death'. We do actually die, albeit only for a few seconds, before our hearts restart. But those few seconds are enough to loosen the hold our bodies had on any natural magic, allowing it to seep back into the earth and fall forever out of our grasp. This part of the transformation happens for everyone with more than half vampiric heritage, including me. 

My misfortune lies in that when I woke up, the powers a vampire usually gets to replace their natural magic stores weren't there. Along with my fangs - which are a real sore point for me, a vampire’s fangs are a mark of their strength as well as a source of great pride. If it had just been the fangs, it may have been alright, my family’s reputation would have been slightly tarnished, but it wouldn’t have been completely decimated. After all there are a few 'fangless' vampires around the place, even if they are largely seen as eccentrics and are generally ignored by the clans. I would have been a bit of a disappointment, but I could still have taken my place as heir to the clan. 

A vampire without power, though, is like a wizard without magic or a dragon without wings. We are seen as weak, pathetic beings no better than mindless animals. Some believe we should be killed, other would just exile us to the non-magical societies like Wizards do to their squib relatives. Needless to say, most who are exiled don’t last for very long – the habits and traditions of a vampire are too ingrained. The lack of the support that comes from being in a coven, and the ache created by the power vacuum that results from a failed inheritance, yet still being so close drives most of us mad.  

That’s what would have happened to me, if I hadn’t been the clan’s only heir. They spent months deliberating on what to do with me; should I still be Clan Head, maybe I should be a puppet ruler, or should they just push me aside for one of my cousins or a sibling – whoever was the next in line to the throne. I push myself up onto my elbows and sigh, I know I shouldn’t dwell so much on the past. If I let it cloud my natural optimism too much, I’ll end up losing myself to depression and despair. 

I’m hoping that when I get myself a job I’ll stop fretting over my current situation and the events that led to it. Ah, the wonders of distractions and denial. I sigh again and roll myself off the bed. As I pick up my cloak of the back of the desk chair I survey the room. There isn’t a thing out of place – not that I brought much with me. I pull the door closed behind me, locking it with an old brass key, sling the deep blue cloak over my shoulders and pull up the hood. It definitely isn’t a good idea to let your face be freely seen in Knockturn Alley. Not in a place where grudges and vendettas are made and fulfilled every day.  Especially when, more often than not the  _ fulfilment _ ends in a dead body.


	3. A Run In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A first meeting, of a sort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This starts from the perspective of Nosferatu, and then flips to Severus's. I haven't marked these because I'm hoping that the difference in style is clear enough.

It’s busier than usual in Asmodeus tonight. The booths along the walls are jammed full, so is the dance floor. Looking over the bar stools I pout, with the influx of people my usual place at the bar has been filled by a mean looking werewolf with a jagged knife scar bisecting his right eye and his left hand glued firmly to the hilt of a bloodstained machete stuck in his belt.

_‘Looks like I’m out of a seat. I ain’t messing with him; you could pay me all the gold in the world and I still wouldn’t do it. Everyone with a lick of sense and half a brain left in their heads knows not to mess with Fenrir and his Pack.’_ I sigh as I start to wend my way through the crowds toward the bar. _‘The Greyback Pack is the largest pack in Britain and they have a well-earned reputation for having short tempers and being ruthless.’_

The smoke is thicker further in and the small glints of colourful light from the dance floor barely penetrate the gloom. The long bench that extends down from the bar only adds to the darkness, I swear it’s sucking in any light that dares to hit it. Not that I really mind, the darkness is still comforting after so many years of living a semi nocturnal life. I’m not entirely used to being up and around during the daylight hours yet. Direct sunlight is strange and almost painful, left over sensitivity in my eyes I think.

Finally, all the way down the other end of the bar I spot an empty seat. It’s not the end one, like I might’ve hoped for, but it’ll do. There’s a stoned out Fae taking up that spot that I’ve never seen anything less than half of his face with something, probably illegal, so I know he’s not going to do anything but sit there riding out his high. To the right is a dark haired bloke with a hooked nose that looks like it was pretty distinctive even before being broken several times too many without being set right. I’ve noticed him occasionally; always sitting in the darkest corner of the club with his hair hiding his face from view.

_‘At least he doesn’t look like he’ll bother me on my quest to get smashed yet again.’_

I flick a hand to catch the attention of the barman as fight my way past. They know me so well now they never have to ask for my order. Not that that’s any real surprise: I’m in here every night and I always drink the same thing – double shots of fortified Firewhiskey laced with Dragon’s Blood – it’s called Blood Whiskey. _‘Which, really, is wonderfully ironic when you think about it…’_.It’s the strongest alcoholic drink this side of the Dimensional Gates – the Demons make a wicked strong brew that’ll knock even a vampire off his feet after a small barrel.

I may not be a true vamp, but I did get a bit of a taste for blood and a _very_ high tolerance for alcohol. That small token of my vampiric inheritance is why my baseline order is twenty extra strong ‘Blood Whiskeys’, I’ll down a hundred of them on a good night, and that won’t even leave me with that bad of a hangover the next morning. You gave that to a human and they’d be dead with alcohol poisoning before you could say ‘ _Firewhiskey’_. Even most werewolves wouldn’t get past the seventy-fifth glass or so, and that’s saying something ‘cause they’re notorious for being almost as impossible to get drunk, just a step below a vampire’s famed tolerance.

_‘It’s something to do with the metabolism I think…’_ I’m so lost in my head that I barely register the screech of a stool being pushed back. I do notice the solid form that collides with me though...

* * *

I curse, low and in Latin. The amount of alcohol I consume, especially given the regularity of my habit, should not impair me to the point of not being able to avoid collisions with other patrons. I am slightly disgusted at myself, that I let myself get so caught up in bemoaning my current situation. It is unbecoming.

I flick a glance up at the unfortunate who is now clutching at my arms to keep his balance. He appears to be a vampire, the usual deathly pallor and deep red eyes. But there is something missing, something crucial. I do not know what it is, but- _‘He doesn’t have the presence about him, the one that creates terror and fear with just a look.’_ I narrow my eyes, studying him as I pull back.

_‘It’s completely absent. He almost seems to radiate… a kind of energetic cheer... Like a hyperactive puppy that creates unending irritation by jumping up and down and yipping until you want to strangle it.’_ Even that doesn’t make sense, though, by his body language it’s plain that he’s as depressed as I am.

_‘But truly, Severus, you should know not to judge by first impressions… or the presence of a person as the case may be in this instance.’_

A flicker in the corner of my eye, and the thunk of something set down on the bar top distracts me. I look up to see the barman retreating, leaving behind a tray laden with shot glasses filled with a bloody, smoking concoction. It’s certainly not something the likes of which I have ever seen, certainly not as a drink expected to be willingly imbibed.

‘ _It reminds me of a particularly gruesome dark potion that was used by a dark lord in the 13_ _th_ _century. A delightful little creation, it was like the Witch Burnings, except it was purely psychological. He used it for torture. The recipe has since been mostly lost, not that we would be able to create it anyway, Fire Equines are a dead species.’_

“Oh, those are mine.” He says, voice smooth but not as low as one might expect from a supposed vampire.

_‘Another count of difference, then.’_ I muse, watching as he pulls away to down the first of the smoking shots.


	4. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus wakes up to a distinct lack of memory, and a strange bedfellow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No POV swapping this time! Severus gets to meet Nosferatu for the 'first' time, properly.

My mind claws its way back to consciousness with excruciating slowness. A fierce hangover making itself well known in the pounding threading through my temples and the foul taste in my mouth. I peel my eyelids open and blink spasmodically until the white spots under my lids fade into a pale beige ceiling. I stare blankly up at the painted boards for several long moments. 

I bolt upright suddenly, awareness focusing in on the fact that I'm in an unfamiliar room with absolutely no recollections of the last night past the arrival of the strange, not-vampire. The change in altitude, small though it was, has my vision blurring once again and my stomach threatening to empty its contents. As the bout of nausea subsides I cast my gaze over the room past the scratchy sheets and unattractive quilt, hoping for some kind of clue to where this is and what I was doing before I passed out. 

I am assuming I passed out at some point last night or I would be waking up to the rickety cot I have set up in the lab beneath the Prince ancestral home. The wardings had largely failed after my mother’s death, and the upper house had fallen into ruin. Only the library, the subterranean Potions lab and one of the greenhouses had survived. Thankfully the Muggle repelling wards and the Unplottable were anchored to a separate wardstone, and hadn’t fallen with the rest. 

I pinch the bridge of my nose, hard, hoping the slight pain will dispel my confusion. It doesn’t, not that I had really expected it to, but it does remind me to catalogue my surroundings properly. It is never wise to let one’s guard down – all lesson learnt quickly by all new Slytherins. 

I am propped on one elbow on the left side of large mattress in a wood panelled room with a white ceiling. There are anchored  _ Lumos _ floating near around the room but otherwise it is empty. It appears I have been placed in the ‘Drunks Room’ - a feature most of Knockturne’s bars and clubs have - it helps keep the ‘bar’ fights down. Less obvious fighting means less visits from the Aurors; something all the inhabitants of Knockturn Alley will go to significant lengths to avoid. After all, the Auror’s don’t believe they need a warrant to search the properties of the ‘Dark’ alley and the Ministry has done nothing to change that view. 

Thankfully the room is largely empty, had it not been the middle of the week there may have been as many as a round dozen patrons tossed in here to ‘sleep it off’. But the other side of the mattress is occupied, with the mysterious young man who had run bodily into me as I was about to leave.  _ ‘Clearly, though, I did not manage to actually leave the fine establishment, or I would be waking in my cot. And there would be a hangover potion in easy reach.’  _ With a sigh I scrub my hand over my face and through my hair, shoving the tangled strands out of my eyes.

A low groan alerts me to my bed partner’s awakening.  My bedfellow straightens,up crossing his legs and resettling the sheet up around his waist. It seems he’s wearing sleep pants, and I am hoping, without any real conviction, that his explanation will include the barman or some other such person transfiguring our clothes.  _ ‘And not… any other situation.’ _

“Ah, um … well…” he stutters and stumbles over his words, looking supremely uncomfortable.  _ ‘Nice to know I haven’t lost my touch…’ _

“Well?” I ask, an eyebrow pointedly raised, I have never had any patience for people who fail to say what they want to concisely.

“I don’t … really know. I mean, I remember being dragged out of the main bar about 2, maybe 3 in the morning but past that I’m not sure. I think the bartender dumped us in here because we were too drunk to Apparate at closing and they’d run out of Sobriety potions.” There is a slight pause before he seems to gather up the courage to speak again. “Um, what’s your name? I’ve seen you at the bar a couple of times lately, but I’ve never heard your name.”

I watch him intently trying to judge his purpose in asking for my name. Names are important in the magical world, they have power; both over the person and their magic. With the prevalence for family allegiances it can also reveal their political ideals and their likely allies. “Severus Snape. And yours?”

“Nosferatu Tepes.” He returns with a slight grimace.

“Tepes, you say.” I pause “That is a vampire clan.” I leave the statement to hang in the air.  _ ‘Yet I am quite sure are human, for the largest part at least.’ _ I muse.

“Yeah,” he mutters sourly, “One hundred percent and completely human, part from the eyes and the high tolerance for alcohol.”

“You claim to be human, but you carry several telltale signs of vampirism.” I question, eyes narrowing slightly as I shift to face him more fully. _ ‘What are you? Some kind of hybrid creature perhaps?’ _ He has piqued my interest even more so now, this kind of puzzle has never presented itself before me quite so neatly before..

“Yeah, my vampirism didn’t manifest, I don’t want to talk about it.” He mumbles, brow furrowed in frustration, a glimmer of sadness in his eyes. I seem to have hit a nerve, if his now closed off expression is any indicator.  _ ‘He was awfully free with that admission, one would think such a  _ particular _ secret would be kept in closer confidence. Perhaps it is something in the events that transpired last night, after my memory fails me, that inspired such casual trust.’ _

“Very well.” I concede, backing off for now. There is no point in pushing things prematurely, and I would find myself hard pressed to be comfortable mentioning my own personal history in the presence of a veritable stranger. “Perhaps a simpler question. What, exactly, happened last night? After you decided to try to run straight through me, that is.”


	5. The Other Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nosferatu is familiar with waking up not knowing exactly what's happened, but this is the first time he's had company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Largely Nosferatu's POV of the last chapter, but it does extend on a bit longer.

Just because vampires have good alcohol tolerance doesn’t mean the hangovers are any better.   

_‘In fact I think they’re worse because we consume that much more alcohol than any other species.’_  I groan as I wake, cursing my vampire heritage as I do every morning after a heavy drinking session. I stare blankly up at the ceiling

_‘Why is the ceiling white, it’s supposed to be beige? At least, I think it was beige…’_ Yes as you can see, I’m not really the most alert in the mornings. Slowly my mind unfogs and my senses clear enough to realize that I have a _human_ lying next to me.

_‘Why is there a human in bed with me? And more importantly, what happened!? I can’t remember much. Just that it had passed closing time. A couple of the bouncers carried the last of us out of the main bar. Usually they just ply anyone with a Sobering Potion and let them apparate themselves back to wherever they sleep. So why have I ended up here, and with a bedmate?’_ My head is still muzzy with sleep, and throbbing to the rhythm of my pulse. I turn to the left to see the dark haired wizard I had run into last night, propped up on an elbow on the other side of the bed. He’s staring at me.

I pull myself up, tugging the sheets around my waist as I resettle against the wall. _‘At least I’m still wearing pants.’_

“Ah, um … well…”  I mutter, stumbling over my words. _‘What are you supposed to say to the stranger you wake up in bed next to?’_ His stare is piercing, it makes me tense up reflexively. My father had the same kind of soul searching stare and it always made me feel inadequate.

“Well?” He says, and it’s icy with a barely concealed edge of derision.

“I don’t … really know. I mean, I remember being dragged out of the main bar about 2, maybe 3 in the morning but past that I’m not sure. I think the bartender dumped us in here because we were too drunk to Apparate at closing and they’d run out of Sobriety potions.” I pause for a moment, shooting glances at him out of the corner of my eye. That stare is really creepy, even more so since he hasn’t let up at all. “Um, what’s your name? I’ve seen you at the bar a couple of times lately, but I’ve never heard your name.”

“Severus Snape. And yours?” There’s a really long pause before he answers, so long that it almost goes past just being awkward and into whatever it is that’s worse than that. _‘It’s actually kind of impressive.’_

“Nosferatu Tepes.” I reply, mouth curling in distaste. Such an _unfortunate_ name, as my former clan had been so quick to point out on many an occasion after my failed inheritance.

“Tepes, you say.” Another pause, though this is shorter. “That is a vampire clan.”

I can practically hear that continue unspoken _‘But he’s human…’_

“Yeah,” I mumble sourly, “One hundred percent and completely human, part from the eyes and the high tolerance for alcohol.” Not like I’ve got any reason to hide it, it’s pretty damn obvious if you know even the first thing about vampires.

“You claim to be human, but you carry several telltale signs of vampirism.” He’s really not trying to hide his interest at all. _‘I don’t know if I should be insulted or not.’_

“Yeah, my vampirism didn’t manifest, I don’t want to talk about it.” I growl, clenching my fists in the sheet. _‘Would you,_ human _, if you’d suddenly had your whole life ripped apart, because you failed?’_

“Very well.” He says. _‘That was too quick. I know that look, he’s decided I’m something_ interesting _. He shouldn’t be giving in this quick.’_

“Perhaps a simpler question. What, exactly, happened last night? After you decided to try to run straight through me, that is.”

_‘And there’s the follow up. Of course it was too good to be true. But it seems like he remembers even less than I do.’_ I chance another glance over at him, but he’s still just staring at me, eyes sharp. I take a quick breath, staring down at the sheets covering my lap as I try to sort out what I can actually remember of last night.

“Right. Well, I don’t know how much you remember, but after I ordered my usual from the bartender I headed down the bar to the end. I usually snag one of the last seats, but then I ran into you.”

“Obviously.” His tone is dry and unimpressed.

“Yeah, so then my drinks arrived and I said ‘oh, those are mine’ and grabbed the free stool and started in on the tray.” I chance another glance up. “You mumbled something about a potion from the 15th century, I think?”

“The 13th century. Your drinks reminded me of it, a similar steam pattern to the descriptions of it I have found.”

“Huh, well, then it gets fuzzy, so I don’t know why you didn’t just go home. You seemed to be leaving when I ran into you.”

“I was. Which is why I find myself in the rather curious position of waking up in an unknown place, with unknown company. My tolerance for alcohol is not so bad, nor my knowledge of my limits so poor.” He is frowning, just slightly, only the faint hint of crease between his brows.

“Alcohol tolerance.” I mutter, blinking quickly, “You wouldn’t happen to have, I don’t know, tried one of my drinks last night, would you? It might explain the lack of memory on your part.”

“And why would that be?”

“Because I drink Blood Whiskeys by the gallon, one of the few good things about being born into a Vampire family, not many can match me. If you’d tried, even only a few, I wouldn’t be surprised if you passed out and couldn’t remember anything the next day.”

“Blood Whiskey.” The fingers of his left hand twitch, as if reaching for something. “The dark drink, served in shot glasses, with a steam pattern reminiscent of Blackwitches Brew.”

“I haven’t got a clue what that is, but Blood Whiskeys really aren’t meant for humans.” I say with a shrug, it’s not the first time I’ve woken up without only a few fuzzy memories of the last night. It’s clearly bothering this Severus Snape a lot more than me.


End file.
